


An Eventful Night

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Crack, Friendship, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has something in his bedroom and it's got him squealing in a rather undignified manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Eventful Night

John Watson did not jerk awake. What John Watson did was a sort of irritated twitch, a vague grumble, and a snore. Here was a John Watson who hadn't slept in two whole days, and he was determined to remain asleep.

The universe had a certain way of conspiring against John Watson.

But yet he did not jerk awake. What he did was let out a panicked yell, scramble up, trip on his sheet and go sprawling onto the floor in a heap of half his bedding. Barefoot and mostly naked, he leapt up and rushed madly down the stairs in a surge of heroic adrenaline.

"Sherlock?" He found his flat mate completely rigid, completely frightened and completely naked. His flat mate whimpered.

"What?" John panicked. "What is it?"

Sherlock made wild eyes at him and pointed very frantically.

"What?" He asked again and prepared for battle with a stray umbrella Mycroft had conveniently left behind, which, it had occurred to him, was probably equipped with a spy camera. He followed his friend's frantic finger. Sherlock seemed incapable of speech, and anxiously lingered behind him, wringing his hands in proper trepidation. John steeled himself for the worst…

Nothing happened. No tentacled monster with razor teeth and flaming machetes. No giant moths rigged with explosives. Nothing.

"Sherlock", he said confusedly, holding out the camera-cum-umbrella like a sword ahead of him still, lest something jump out at him and attack. "There's nothing in here."

Behind him, Sherlock let out a little moan of despair.

"There's nothing in here", John repeated, looking with all his might. He frowned. The room was as it normally was – like the rubble after a hurricane. Nothing was out of place.

Sherlock uttered something that sounded suspiciously like half a sob, hesitated for a very long minute, and just barely stepped into the room. John, defensive stance still in place, turned to his pale friend. His pale friend paled further and swallowed heavily. No one breathed.

He shuddered, and he pointed again.

The camera-umbrella-sword fell with a clatter. John breathed, and tried to choose between amusement and irritation.

"Sherlock, _god_ , it's just a spider."

The spider moved a little. Sherlock dashed out of the room.

"Get rid of it get rid of it get rid of it!" He squealed.

John settled on amusement and did a quick job of scooping up the little pest. It settled on his hand, looking disgruntled in the manner that only spiders can manage. He let it out the window, and watched it scuttle out into the night, and laughed all the way up the stairs.

And then he stopped laughing.

"Sherlock get out of my bed."

Sherlock made his customary sound of a stubborn no.

"You can sleep in my bedroom", he decided.

"I don't want to sleep in your room", John complained. "I'll trip over something in the morning and break my neck."

"I'll cover your medical bills if you somehow manage that."

" _Sherlock",_ John frowned and crossed his arms, only a step away from stamping his foot. "Go to your own bed."

"I'm not sleeping in that room."

"The spider's _gone."_

"That's what they all say!"

John groaned. Sherlock huffed.

"Just get in with me, John", he said with great Sherlockian impatience.

"I'm not sharing a bed with you", John whined.

"Fine", Sherlock deadpanned, and snuggled into the pillow. _His_ pillow.

John fumed for an entirety of two seconds, and then he climbed in. Sherlock wiggled to make more space for him, and somehow took up more space.

John turned off the night lamp. Sherlock's bare butt was pressed against thigh. There was silence.

"Do you want to put something on?"

Sherlock grunted. "Put what on?"

"I dunno. Boxers?"

"You want me to put on your boxers?"

John thought about it.

"Not really, no."

Silence returned. Sherlock's butt was very smooth. Like the inside of an avocado.

"You know it can't hurt you right?" John said, trying not the think of exactly how smooth Sherlock's butt was.

He was met with an impatient hiss.

"Don't be an idiot John!" Sherlock snapped, spitting acid. "It's called an irrational fear for a reason."

"You were squealing like a little girl", John laughed. This was brilliant blog-worthy material. And he hadn't even needed to sprint across London or get shot at to acquire it.

"You are _not_ putting this on your blog", Sherlock ordered.

John offered a noncommittal hum. He was suddenly craving an avocado.

"If anyone hears of this from you", Sherlock threatened, "If you tell anyone, I will hide your body in the way only I know how. No one will find you. No one."

Perhaps it was sad, but John hadn't a single doubt he would. He closed his eyes, made a genuine effort not to think about biting Sherlock's butt, drifted off to sleep, and dreamt of biting Sherlock's butt.

Meanwhile, their little eight legged friend climbed onto a window ledge, and found its way into their shower. 


End file.
